


soften your blows on me

by kuro49



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: White Knight (Comics), DCU
Genre: Batman: White Knights 'verse, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:58:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: You were his first boy wonder, and you, Jason Peter Todd, always knew the bat came to collect what he is due.





	soften your blows on me

**Author's Note:**

> i really really really liked the setting in the white knight 'verse where jason is the first robin and he didn't die but still left batman all the same. the comics never told us what happened to the jason after, so i wrote my own what if because life is too short for me not to be self-indulgent.
> 
> (quick summary for those who didn't read the white knight comics: jason was the first robin, kidnapped by joker and tortured until he revealed batman's true identity as bruce wayne then set free bc what would gut batman more than a dead robin?? if you guessed a robin who gave up batman, was broken beyond repair to the point where he ran from the nest, and would rather have bruce think he was dead than come home then you get a gold star. there is also a whole bunch of things about joker being reformed temporarily and two harleys but that is not relevant here at all. but you should read the comics anyway because the art is really nice.)

 

Batman never comes looking because there is never cause for him to think there is anything left to find.

You wonder if Batman ever used his imagination because you have used yours and a deep vast pool of perchloric acid can dissolve even bone. You, Jason Peter Todd, wonder if he thinks about you at all.

 After all, you gave him up in every sense of the word.

(You don’t get him now.)

 

“I always thought I would be willing to die for you.”

You have lied to him, you have lied for him. This is neither one of those things.

“Jason, I would never ask that of you.”

Regret tastes like a whole world of pain concentrated in a single place. It tastes like a kiss that takes and takes. Bruce kisses you like he is in mourning, presses his mouth to yours like a particularly punishing brand of remorse, and you cannot let him have that too.

“You never had to, Bruce. But I guess we both learned a lesson about ourselves that day.”

 

You have a home in the Narrows.

You make one out of the decrepit neighbourhood abandoned by the rest of Gotham. Sleep with a gun under your pillow and a knife slipped between the mattress and the cluttered nightstand because you do not have the first clue in learning how to leave Gotham all on her own even after everything. You are drawn to this place like you still have stakes in this game you have long retired from. 

There is static on your television and the sound of the streets filtering three stories high to fill the small space of this one bedroom apartment. Two miles from Arkham Asylum and three deadbolts to your reinforced door, you live in anonymity. It is a surprise even to you that this is possible.

Here, you live a life beyond Bruce Wayne.

 

He forces your hand, you break the bone.

He puts Jason Todd into the ground, and you bury Batman in a deep dark place. You are left thinking one single thought for a long time after that: This man might as well be dead to you. 

 

Bruce heaves a breath in, exhales on a long pause, and it sounds awfully like he is gathering courage for a conversation neither one of you ever imagined having. “I made a promise to create a Gotham you would’ve wanted.”

“Big words even for you, B.”

“This was always my war and I dragged you into it.” Bruce is coming clean like the slate is ever just that easy to wipe out. “You were never supposed to get hurt.”

This is sweet, really, but this is not the Bruce you've known all your short, sad life. You light up, nicotine filling out the room, forcing out the air from your lungs on an inhale you drag out. “You can’t really believe that.” 

"I can hope."

You give him an opportunity to do what you cannot. "We have very different ideas of what hope is then.”

 

You walk home in the near-dark, grocery bags in one hand, the other shoved deep inside the pocket of your leather jacket. The sidewalks are wet, the streetlights flicker before going out all together, and the shadows that gather remind you of the shape of a nocturnal animal you have no will to name.

It is twelves years in the making, and there hasn't been a single day where you haven't wondered when this exact day will come.

When the Joker gets bored and plays that last hand he’s got, lays down Robin's betrayal at Batman's feet like a neat little package with a bow wrapped up at the top, the big bad bat will come collecting. Oh sure, you owe the man the truth of what you've done (a mix bag of shame and guilt heavy to every step you've taken from that basement you were let out of), and the man owes you a whole lot more for bringing the kid that you were to becoming this city's enforcer. You bleed out in increments but never manage to die. You don't grow stronger from this, you just learn to run.

This is where you think you can just about call it even: One secret identity for another, Robin for Bruce Wayne’s.

You both buried an empty coffin that day. 

 

You write your will like you would your grocery list.

You are meticulous in every way that doesn't end up mattering one bit. The grand scheme of things can choke on its very last breath when you finally lash out in the glory of fear that takes and takes. Bruce scares you, and him for you. You don't know why he always matters to you in that way he does. 

 

He follows you, trails after you like he still has a right to you, like he has any right to a single thing in relation to you.

He has been following you for weeks, knows your schedule probably better than you do. Some days you slip and you don't notice the shadows that stretch far longer than they should. Some days he slips up and it is the only thing you notice. Batman has always been thorough, and this is the same. Batman has always been bad at letting go of his mistakes.

It is a late Wednesday night when he finally comes knocking. You do not look past the dark of the night or the shadows shifting on your fire escape when you bolt the window and close the curtains in a very simple message to the Bat.

The next knock comes at your front door.

"Jason."

You laugh, and it is a biting little thing that rattles out from your chest.

He is stripped down enough to not be recognized as Batman at first glance, standing there at your door as though he is waiting for you to invite him in like an old friend. You match him, sort of, leaning against the door jamb in a simple t-shirt and the underwear you were planning to sleep in. Dressed down and vulnerable to anything that can come. Bruce Wayne looks fucking nervous.

Here is the thing though, you have built this life in anticipation for this moment in time. 

"It's been a while, Brucie."

You hate how your name sounds just as good coming from him, broken like every part of you in association to him. Stepping back, you let him in.

 

“The Robin you’ve got now.” You are not so removed from it all that you didn’t see news of Dick Grayson’s adoption into the Wayne household or the Robin that came after. It is not a competition, but you make it one just to see the expression that twists on Bruce's face. You say, “he’s good."

Bruce is careful, terribly so. He is on eggshells around you and you think you don't entirely hate that. “You were good too.”

You look at him, smiling wider and wider until it is all teeth and tell him what you both know. The truth, and oh, it hurts all right. Even without the malice, the intent is all there. You were his first boy wonder. You come back to him, of all things, as an unknown.

 “The kid’s better.”

 

“What happ–” Bruce Wayne stops himself to start again like this will ever have a good ending for you both, "what did he do to you?"

And ain’t that the question for the ages? You are not faced with a broken man even if it is a very close thing.

“Want to rephrase that, B?" The only thing you ever wondered about now is how it took so long for you to become collateral damage in this war of his. Each scar a nasty little reminder that there is still room on this body to take on _more_. In this torrid affair between the Batman and Joker, the Robin in the green and yellow and spots of red that blooms and blooms has no room to grow. "I think the better question might be, what didn't he do?”

You smile something vicious just for him.

 

He says the one thing you hoped he wouldn't because you know exactly what it means. Bruce Wayne has never understood the kindness in not knowing. "I never stopped wondering what happened to you."

He never did think hope could be a rotten thing to hold on to.

 

(You are loved.

And that is a terrible realization to come to.)

 

Pulling down sharply on the chain from the single bulb, you bask the room in sudden light. The dark scurries to the four corners of the room like rats.

"You were never gentle with me before." You push him down on to the bed to climb over and on to him. You are responsive and that scares him. You think a lot of things in association to yourself will. Bruce looks at you like you are a mystery. He has no idea how to anticipate you as you are now. Your tilt your head, you let Bruce see. “Why start now?”

“Things have changed, Jason.”

“For better and for worse, things always change, Bruce.” You say, pulling your tee up and over your head. You don't need to drag him in but you have your hands at his neck and your fingers against his throat, he comes to you like he’s only ever been waiting for this.

“What is this then?” He rasps out.

“Probably worse.” You say in answer, swaying as you straddle Bruce and declare what you both know. “Bad decisions are a dime a dozen, B. That is nothing new.”

You lean down, you press your lips to his. You have changed, you are not so sure he has. You open your mouth, you push your tongue to his.

 

You force him to face the truth.

He reaches out to you despite it. He touches his palm against your skin, feels the shudder that rattles through every vertebrae like he is trying to commit you to memory for every lost day. There are a lot of missing days.

 

You turn on to your stomach, the line of your back on full display.

Scar tissue upon scar tissue, Bruce hates that he can’t remember which ones are his to bear the full weight of and you hate that it hasn't mattered for a long time now. The smoke curls from the end of your lit cigarette, the heavy nicotine fading out the smell of sweat on your skin and the sex still lingering behind every bad decision the two of you have made.

“Did you put down flowers on my empty grave year after year?” You ask, wondering if you care for an answer at all.

"You want me to tell you I put down your favourites day after day?"

"I don't have favourites."

"You could've."

You let his words sink in and you wish you had the breath left in you to laugh something just as bitter as the feelings brewing inside of you. You are still wishing you never met Bruce Wayne. You turn your head, catching his eyes in the low light of the room. You are warm, heat beneath his hands, your mouth hot against his. "I still can."

You are alive, and you are not so sure he has come to the same realization just yet.

 

“Can I come back?” He asks, standing at your door.

You should have been asleep three hours ago but your t-shirt is gone and the only thing you are left with is this bad taste in your mouth like ashes when he gets up from your bed to go. “You’re Bruce Wayne. You’re Batman. You do what you want to do.”

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, not moving at all.

You think on that for a long five seconds. You don't need him to live a life of your own, you never did. He is looking at you, and you right back, another two tick by.

“I want you to let me live this life.”

 

"I gave you up, I gave him you."

Bruce Wayne still happened to you but you happened to Bruce Wayne too. You realize you never did quite ever factor that into the equation. The two of you are even, you think.

"And I never should have given up on you, Jason."

 

Two wrongs don't make a right. It is a good thing you are not here to make amends.

A knock comes, in the dead of night. Your home is familiar to you as you navigate through the dark. You turn the bolts, all three, and you let him in. This is familiar too.

 


End file.
